


There Will Be Time

by jesslikesthebeatles



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Friends to Lovers, M/M, Molly is gonna make this shit work., Parentlock, Pining, Requited Love, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-19
Updated: 2017-01-19
Packaged: 2018-09-18 16:05:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9392645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jesslikesthebeatles/pseuds/jesslikesthebeatles
Summary: Sherlock is enjoying domestic bliss with the Watsons, but he is pining desperately for John. With help from Molly and their other friends, can John and Sherlock find their way to where they're meant to be?





	

**Author's Note:**

> So yeah, this fic is inspired by the parentlock montage at the end of The Final Problem (no further comment on the episode...) along with my experiences of falling for a close friend. Oh, and also Martin Freeman looking yummy in s4. (Brownie points if you can guess which part of his anatomy I find really attractive from the clues in this fic!)  
> So expect lots of pining, misunderstandings, awkward tension, and unrequited love. Fun for all. Comments welcome!  
> *The first chapter is teen, this will extend to mature (and maybe explicit) in further chapters.  
> **You can follow me on Twitter @jessystardust or Tumblr @jess-the-apple-scruff :)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock tries to ignore his feelings for John because he's scared to lose him.

“Oops, someone needs changing. Won’t be a minute.”

Sherlock watched John carry Rosie out of the sitting room at 221B, and Molly Hooper watched Sherlock. With a soft sigh, she set her cup of tea on to the coffee table, and tried to select her words carefully.

“Sherlock,” she said softly, “You should talk to him.”

Her words were met with a raised eyebrow and a look that clearly said ‘don’t even try’. But Molly knew Sherlock better than almost anyone, and she wanted to help. She shifted on the sofa, turning to face him more, and glanced quickly up at the stairs that lead to John and Rosie’s bedroom before speaking.

“You’re practically a family now,” Molly said quietly, “And John hasn’t started dating again yet. He loves being here, with you and Rosie.”

“Thankyou for your random observations,” Sherlock snapped, but he didn’t meet Molly’s gaze.

Molly retrieved her cup of tea and sipped at it. “It’s you and John and Rosie,” she says. “There is so much love here, Sherlock. And we both know you want more.”

John’s footsteps started distant and then got closer, and then he was standing in the doorway, little Rosie freshly changed and smiling. John was smiling, too. His grin was wide and honest, his hair slightly askew but so very beautiful. Sherlock could feel his heart beating fast against his ribs urgently. Just looking at John made him feel things he had never felt for anyone before.

He couldn’t - wouldn’t - lose this.

((((((((((((((((

Sundays were Sherlock’s favourite day.

They didn’t used to be. He never had favourite days, really; he’d had no need for that sort of sentiment, especially not about something that cannot be altered. But a lot had changed.

One particular Sunday, Sherlock managed to get to Rosie before she started crying. She usually woke between six and six thirty, which on a working day suited John fine, as he happily saw to his daughter before getting ready for work. But on a Sunday, John liked to sleep in, and then read the newspaper in bed, and then have a late breakfast, and then take Rosie to the park. An early morning wake-up call, even from the apple of his eye, wasn’t what he wanted on a Sunday morning.

Sherlock lifted the infant out of her cot. She keened for him, smile wide, and as usual went to grab fistfuls of his hair. She had John’s nose and Mary’s eyes. She was beautiful.

He glanced at John. He was on the far side of the bed, back turned towards the cot, and his breathing was heavy and slow and peaceful.

“Come on, little Watson.”

Sherlock changed her and then they did a crossword together, Rosie snug on his lap and trying to grab the paper. It was about eight when Sherlock took the newspaper upstairs, Rosie on his hip, and put it on the bed next to John so that he didn’t have to get out of bed.

Rosie made a short, loud squealing noise, and John frowned in his sleep, turning on to his back and yawning. The duvet is down by his waist and Sherlock can see a small sliver of sleep-warm skin where his shirt has tugged upwards. His hair was disheveled, and he raised one toned arm above his head, resting against the cushioned headboard as he finally opened his eyes, focusing on Sherlock and Rosie.

“Oh,” he murmured, voice rough with sleep, “G’morning.”

Sherlock shuffled from foot to foot. “Hello,” he said.

John gave him an odd look, then put his arms out, smiling at his daughter. “Come here, love.”

Sherlock passed her over, tryting to avoid physicial contact, which is near on impossible. John’s hands brushed against Sherlock’s wrists during the transaction. He felt warm and soft. He looked gorgeous like this, all bedhead and gentle, and Sherlock would have given anything and everything to just crawl in to the bed and lay with them.

“You okay?” John asked. Rosie was sitting on his chest and John was holding her up carefully.

“Yes,” replied Sherlock. “I’ll make you a cup of tea.”

“You don’t have to-”

Sherlock didn’t respond, just went downstairs, put the kettle on and leaned against the worktop, his head bowed as he tried to still his thoughts. It’s not fair, he thought, to have everything he wanted right in front of him and yet so out of reach. Perhaps he should just be grateful for what he had and not what he yearns for.

((((((((((((((

“Oh look, there’s daddy, hi!”

Rosie gurgled as Sherlock jiggled her on his hip. John was on the sofa, and Sherlock and Rosie had just got back from visiting Mrs Hudson for an hour or so. John looked gorgeous and relaxed, shirt rolled to the sleeves, and as Sherlock passed Rosie over, he tried not to look at the way the material stretched over his biceps. He’d been going to the gym for the past couple of months, not obsessively but enough for it to start showing.

“My Rosie,” John sang, reaching to grab his daughter and then pull her in to his lap. He started pressing kisses to the baby’s head and face, and Rosie let out a peel of laughter, squirming. It was adorable, and beautiful, and Sherlock wished he could have filmed it, just to watch it again.

John turned Rosie round on his lap to face Sherlock and grinned up at him. “What have you and Uncle Sherlock been up to, hmm?”

Sherlock tried not to feel disappointed. After all, he was Rosie’s godfather, and ‘Uncle Sherlock’ was lovely. He had never imagined he’d be an uncle to anyone, by blood or otherwise. He would take this over being ‘daddy’s weird friend’ that Rosie hardly knows.

But his chest ached. Because he loved her, and he wanted her to be his, just like she’s John’s. He knew that wasn’t right. He had had no part in creating this wonderful little thing. Hell, if Mary were still alive, he wouldn’t be involved in her every day life; Sherlock knew that. He needed to remember that.

“Sherlock? Are you alright?”

Sherlock shook himself back to the present. “Of course,” he smiled. “We’ve been to see Mrs Hudson, haven’t we, love?”

John’s face softened at the word ‘love’, and his eyes stayed on Sherlock even as he leaned down to kiss the back of his daughter’s head.

“I’ll just,” said Sherlock, and he left the room quickly, trying to ignore the tightness in his chest.

(((((((((((((

The case was a mediocre six, and Sherlock huffed with annoyance as he came back in to the flat, shucking off his coat and hanging it on the back of the sitting room door. He could smell John’s aftershave, the expensive one that John wore when he was really trying to impress someone. It filled Sherlock’s stomach with dread.

He found John in the kitchen, tea towel over one shoulder as he made formula for Rosie’s bottle. Sherlock scanned him quickly. He was wearing his designer shirt, the midnight blue one, and his tighter black jeans, and his hair was slicked back.

He had a date.

John turned to grab something and gasped, placing a hand over his chest. “Jesus, Sherlock,” he laughed, “You made me jump.”

“You’re going on a date,” Sherlock stated, because the disappointed thud of his heart was making it difficult to think about anything else. He knew he had no right to feel so gutted. John was not his, nor was he John’s, they were two best friends who were clinging to one another, trying to find their place in life.

John frowned, and then said, “Yes. A girl from work.”

Sherlock nodded, gulped, turned away and desperately tried to find something to busy himself with. He went to the microscope, but his hands were shaking: he didn’t know whether he was angry, heartbroken, or just frustrated. Probably all three. His head felt foggy with the realisation that he was pining for a man who was probably going to find a nice woman, date her, marry her, and leave him.

“Are you.. Alright?” John’s voice drifted toward him, and then there was a hand on his back, and Sherlock jumped like he’d been burnt, moved away from a very hurt looking John.

“I’m fine.”

“Are you sure-?”

“John, I am fine, just leave me alone,” Sherlock snapped, and his voice sounds horrible, full of venom, “Go on your date and I will stay here and look after your daughter.”

John’s stance changed, his back straightened, and his eyes narrowed. “Excuse me, what does that mean?”

Sherlock turned away from him, headed towards the sofa. “Nothing.”  
“Sherlock Holmes, if you’re going to say something like that, you can look me in the eye and explain to me what you mean by it.”

There was no response from Sherlock as he laid himself on the sofa, back to John, and closed his eyes. He didn’t want to give John a half-arsed excuse, but he couldn’t tell him the truth. It made him feel sick just thinking about it. He could imagine it, John’s look of disgust, or worse, pity, before he calmly explained that he and Sherlock are just friends, nothing more. Then he’d move out and Sherlock wouldn’t see John or Rosie every day.

”You know what, fuck this, Sherlock, seriously,” John hissed, and he slapped the tea towel on to the worktop, “Do you know how great you’ve been these past few months? Me and you and Rosie, it’s been amazing, it’s exactly what I needed. And now, what, I want to spend some time away from you and you act like this? Grow up.”

He went upstairs to say goodbye to Rosie, then slammed the baby monitor on to the coffee table, grabbed his coat and keys, and left, slamming the front door to 221B as loudly as he could. As the silence of the flat hits him, Sherlock tried his best not to panic.

((((((((((

”I honestly think he likes you too.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Based on what evidence, Molly?”

Molly glared at him. “Based on everything, Sherlock! He adores you.”

”He absolutely doesn’t. I annoy him,” Sherlock said pitifully. “And he likes women.”

”I know for a fact that he is bisexual.”

Sherlock sat up straighter at that. “You do?”

Molly nodded. She took a sip from her cup of tea. “He told me,” she said quietly. “At Mrs Hudson’s birthday party a few months ago. Remember, everyone was so drunk, even you?”

”Obviously I remember,” said Sherlock impatiently. “What did he say?”

”I shouldn’t really-”

”You’ve already told me the biggest part of it,” Sherlock pointed out. He reached out to grab his own cup but set it back on the coffee table. “Of course, when we first met, it was obvious he was attracted me, and he even asked about my relationship status, but a lot has changed since then-”

”He didn’t mention you, Sherlock.” Molly sighed. “He just said… We were talking about sex,” She blushed slightly, “Like people do when they’re drunk. And he said something… Something he had done with a bloke he had been seeing once. It was just a bit of a giggle.”

Sherlock frowned. He didn’t really know what to say to that. The fact that Molly knew something about John that Sherlock didn’t know was unsettling. And hearing about John’s sexual activities with men, whilst somewhat reassuring, was unsettling.

Molly placed a comforting hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Sherlock, he likes you. I’m sure of it. Apart from Rosie, you’re all he ever talks about.”

The bang of the front door made them both jump, and then there were the sound of John’s footsteps before he appeared in the doorway, his brow furrowed. He didn’t look happy. Sherlock quickly looked away from his direction.

”Hello, John,” Molly smiled at him, “How, er. How was your date?”

John glared at Sherlock, “It was horrendous. Because some dickhead wound me up before I left and I ended up taking it out on Julia. We had an argument.”

Sherlock sighed, and Molly looked awkwardly between the two men, before clumsily getting to her feet and making her excuses. She pulled on her coat, still looking at John and Sherlock. The former was standing, fists clenched, glaring at his friend, and the latter was sitting on the sofa, ignoring the doctor and sulking.

”Sorry about your date, John. Goodnight,” Molly said as she left, and then just outside the door, she added, “By the way, Sherlock needs to talk to you about something.”

Sherlock glared after her, but she was already gone. John came and sat opposite Sherlock on the sofa. Sherlock could smell him; even with the aftershave, he could still smell John, and he wanted to bury his face in his shirt and never move it away.

”What is your problem, Sherlock?” John asked. “Everything was going so well, and then… You’ve been weird lately. Not your normal weird, either. Just… off.”

Sherlock huffed, and looked at John. Seven years they had spent in each other’s lives. So much had happened in that time, more than most people experienced in a life time. Sherlock didn’t fall in love easily - had never fallen in love before, even - and he certainly didn’t go around pining for just anyone. His feelings and emotions were often as calculated as his thoughts and actions.

You could lose this. You could lose him.

With a gulp, Sherlock muttered, “I am just worried about you, John. I think it’s too early to be dating. But I apologise. It is your choice.”

John didn’t look convinced. If anything, he looked hurt. But before he could respond, Sherlock quickly bid him goodnight, and went to his bedroom, where sleep still hadn’t found him by morning.


End file.
